


Inevitable

by Aravis



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Hannibal Lecter - Freeform, Hannibal will destroy everything eventually, I couldn't stop myself, I'm Sorry, M/M, Seriously Dubious Consent, VERY SERIOUSLY DUBIOUS, Will Graham - Freeform, inevitable angst, so why not start here
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-14
Updated: 2013-06-14
Packaged: 2017-12-14 22:54:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,641
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/842302
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aravis/pseuds/Aravis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I'm so sorry - this show has just... royally f*cked with my headspace.</p><p>I needed this a lot more than I should. It's not healthy to be so enraptured by intimate violence. </p><p>Please note that this is a repost of the original drabble which I posted to my tumblr, with some edits and clarification.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Inevitable

**Author's Note:**

> I'm such a bad fanfiction writer- I didn't finish my other story before I started this one.
> 
> I swear to GOD I am almost done the other story, but this one has literally been sitting, like waiting, crouching inside me for days since I watched Hannibal.
> 
> Seriously guys, the show is doing fucked up things to my head.

Hannibal does not immediately attempt to provoke any instance of physical intimacy with Will Graham. He waits, he plans: he watches.

Will Graham is fascinating to observe.

The encephalitis, once Hannibal is aware of its presence, is obvious. It makes Will incredibly weak, his mind providing the necessary push to allow Hannibal the vacuum of time and reason needed to capture Will’s attention, disprove all other realities but those Hannibal himself sets out. 

Hannibal revels in touching Will’s face in his dining room, the ease with which he disarms Will despite his seizure locked body. When he sends Gideon on his way, he returns to Will who is frozen, still; perhaps he has gone unconscious, Hannibal doubts that; Will’s face creases even now. 

He feels powerful when Will succumbs to him, his cracked lips spreading in the smile he asks for. He commends Will for his obedience, and wonders how Will would look on his knees. Bound perhaps, or even bloodied, staring up at Hannibal once he allows it. A thin vibration crosses Hannibal’s skin which he quickly dispels. 

He returns from the façade of calling Jack, pleased at the emptiness of his dining room, gun and keys innocently missing. He allows himself a glass of wine, savouring the bouquet until the phone brings news of Will from Jack Crawford. 

He frowns at the news, but understands its necessity. Will had suffered a minor seizure after all, and was running an extreme fever. Hannibal wishes that Will be brought back within a controlled situation, a place where no other has access to the intimate regions of Will’s mind. He dislikes the uncertainty that those beyond his influence are prone to exhibiting.

Still, he considers the night a success. A progression, he feels, in the case of his patient. Perhaps, not in the traditional ideal of ‘positive’ outcomes desired by the generally sane, but for him, most evocative.

It does not take long before Will comes to him after he leaves the hospital. Alana Bloom attempts to stop him, and Hannibal realises he has another to push aside if he wants Will without violence. He skilfully manipulates Will, alienating Alana and obscurely referencing the dangerous infiltration the FBI has done to Will in their thanks for his mental health. Alana realises his tactic and her mouth thins at his rebuke at her offer of help, but she says nothing. Will does not belong to her, she knows this - Hannibal knows this.

But Will comes, eventually. It takes a few months, a few hospital visits which Hannibal monitors closely, ensuring no evidence of the diagnosis reaches his isolated patient. The doctors at the hospital ask him questions and Will parrots the conversations Hannibal recalls. These words wrung from Will’s mouth make Hannibal smile, a small affair, but something that still warms him in a way killing doesn’t. 

Will rings the doorbell on a Friday evening; Hannibal appreciates his dedication to discretion. It will be three days before anyone will consider Will Graham’s apparent absence. Hannibal understands what Will means by this arrival. 

Hannibal feeds Will Graham, watches him sip at a beautiful Merlot without any sense of palette and conceals a sigh. It takes Hannibal less than five minutes of having Will locked in his home before the doctor decides to bed him. Hannibal watches Will pick indelicately at the meat until an admonishing glance from the doctor speeds his movements. Hannibal allows Will two glasses of wine and then moderates his request for more, passing the other man a swelling glass of water instead.

Although he desires to see Will Graham undone, completely bare to possibilities, he has no desire to take a compromised person to his bed. It amuses him, this irony. He believes, if Will were otherwise removed from the situation, that it might amuse him as well. 

Will seems to understand when Hannibal waits, patiently, gaze unmoving across the table. He finishes his water in silence, stands when Hannibal does, follows him through the door.

A part of Hannibal’s mind detaches, watching, evaluating. It pities that Will Graham has fallen so far he does not even question his motives as he follows a killer to his bed. Some part of Will has recognised Hannibal, and why should that surprise him? He’s spent months living with the Chesapeake Ripper mentally, sharing his thoughts and recreating, re-living his acts. That Will has taken even this long is somewhat disappointing to Hannibal, but he must keep things in perspective. His desire to observe Will Graham’s descent into madness, into the throes of encephalitis, stalled Will’s probing mind and put his search for the Ripper on hold. But this night is Hannibal’s reward; tonight is their realisation.

The rest of Hannibal sharpens, not dulled and slurred by wine or food, but heightened to excitement by Will’s presence. Even Will seems more animated as they continue through Hannibal’s home. Though his sickness has not been treated - due to Hannibal’s faithful pursuit of curious doctors and nurses - Will’s mental state always seems clearer, more focussed when he is with Hannibal. This fact gives Hannibal a mated sense of pride and precariousness, knowing Will depends upon him but also that his suspicions will run more quickly, which may put Hannibal at a greater risk of exposure. The hallways draw closer, illuminating their proximity; Hannibal edges closer behind Will as they walk, deeply pleased that Will needs no guidance to find his room.

The door opens easily, silent, under Will’s hand. For a moment, he pauses, turning over his shoulder to meet Hannibal’s gaze. A question, for a fraction of a second, fills his eyes. Hannibal understands; Will seems reassured by what he sees, shadow enveloping his figure as he walks into the unlit room.

Hannibal will later recall the look on Will’s face and feel truly absolved, having taken the best as his own. His earlier trepidation fulfilled, Hannibal decides he can begin to let his mask, his ‘person-suit’, fade. Will has shown Hannibal he is ready to see. Hannibal recalls the question on Will’s face as they entered his bedroom: “am I about to die?”

Hannibal has tried to keep his falsehoods with Will to a minimum, despite the accruing evidence otherwise. The small incline of his head and the unshielded hunger in his eyes was answer enough.

_Yes._

_Yes, Will._

_You are dead._

Hannibal is a considerate lover, yet somewhat emotionless. He is passionate, caring, yes. But his eyes do not close in ecstasy, his teeth do not grit in helpless fury. Fierce and taut and smooth-labouring limbs allow him to mentally observe the act _in media res_. Will’s body in the sweat of passion is, not surprisingly, identical to the damp of nightmare driven physical exorcism. Will’s limbs grasp at him, not weakly or pitifully; they choose points of contact, of solidarity. Hannibal appreciates Will’s capacity for preparation as he allows his muscles to take pleasure in the strength of their movements. Will presses himself closer, his knees braced firmly against Hannibal’s ribs as they move together. Hannibal discourages Will’s hands when they move up to grasp at him, instead pressing Will’s hands next to his head, Hannibal’s fingers wrapped around the younger man’s wrists.

Hannibal does not increase his pace: he moves no slower, no faster. Will realises Hannibal’s intent soon into their coupling, his eyes flashing up to meet Hannibal’s gaze for the first time since they entered the bedroom. Hannibal has shed the mask, his gaze piercing as he lets Will see him, truly. Will’s eyes tighten in fear, but Hannibal focuses his attentions, excising any spare emotion from his partner.  

He keeps Will in comfort, of course. He ensures Will is safe from the bright sting of raw flesh, that he is well positioned, his body tended to its needs. He keeps Will in his bed for a long time.

The clock blurs in his vision - it surprises him only slightly, this physical side effect of maintaining extended copulation. Will’s head bent back beneath Hannibal, the long column of his neck exposed, draws a pang of desire from him. Will’s chest heaves and Hannibal grips the flesh of Will’s thigh, drawing closer. Will has stopped sweating, his eyes no longer fill with tears; his reserve of fluid decreasing with their exertion. Dehydration, he realises vaguely, aware of the ramifications of Will’s deteriorating condition.

If he wished, he could keep Will here, slowly exhaust him to the point of failure. Will would not fight him, he can feel this in the looseness of Will’s muscles, the way he has dropped his head back onto Hannibal’s feather pillows, neck drawn inexorably back with the weight of his skull. Hannibal wonders at the ease with which he could crush Will in this moment. 

Hannibal watches Will’s expression, interested in the persistence of his ecstasy. Why? Why continue to enjoy such acts? Certainly, after hours of sexual intimacy, Will’s body must be in considerable pain, despite Hannibal’s exertion to effect otherwise. Yet Will remains nearly silent, the only noise an occasional loss of breath or cracked, strangled groan.

Hannibal understands Will’s silence. It is natural to fear the one who hunts you. Will plays dead beneath him, prey awaiting its predator. 

His mouth curls, and he considers the idea brewing within. Will could break, soon. Jack Crawford suspects, he believes Dr. Bloom may also be at least passing aware of Will’s growing detachment, and Abigail certainly is aware of Will’s tenuous grasp on reality. For her own peace of mind, he has sent her elsewhere for this night, told her to stay at the hospital, behind her walls. 

Although he takes no shame in their coupling, he has no desire to entertain embarrassment on Will’s part. Abigail did not need elaboration to understand his intentions. Her eyes, wide and filled with yet uncharted damage, gave Hannibal silent permission for which he has no use.

Will Graham _belongs_ to him. He needs no validation.

He allows himself satisfaction, pleased in his decision to forego protection to experience full sensation. He is, after all, a doctor. Fully tested, completely medically clean. And Will Graham? Hannibal is quite assured of Will’s essential celibacy. His empathic powers have rendered him unable to perceive or appropriately prioritise his life, let alone the cinctures of an intimate relationship. 

Lecter cleans himself promptly, returning to the bed a short while later, manipulating Will’s limbs to best wash the traces of their act from his flesh. He does not move the cloth back between Will’s legs to smooth away the trace of Hannibal there. Will makes no comment, merely letting his thighs slide back to the sheets when Hannibal allows him, moving away to wring the cloth. 

Hannibal makes no move to rest in the bed near Will; Will does not seem as if he had expected otherwise. Hannibal wraps silk sheets around Will; his naked skin prickling with faint sweat, his skin cold. Will moves easily, undone through Hannibal’s treatment.

When he finishes tucking Will into his bed, he goes to his office to stoke the fire yet crackling in the grate. He looks for a time through the various files and entries he has made in Will Graham’s case. Carefully, meticulously, he completes an entry detailing their most recent encounter. He spares no detail, sexual, clinical, or otherwise. It is important to him to retain such valuable, precious information.

Soft footfalls meet his ears, audible despite the obvious attempt to mask them. Hannibal closes the file and turns to meet Will. 

Will walks toward him, face gritted. Hannibal sees the knife in his hand and smiles to himself. Will cannot walk: he limps, bracing himself against the wall and pushing off to appear stronger. He is not; Hannibal can see every quiver in his thighs, the tensing in his abdomen, the sheen of his pale skin. Will pauses, naked, bruises flowering across his flesh like a dappled pelt. Hannibal watches with slitted gaze the track of fluid that slicks its way downward, high between Will’s thighs.

Hannibal waits patiently until Will sinks back against the wall of his office. The house is dark behind Will, Hannibal’s office barely flickers; fear of the dark he has entered into grows visible in Will’s eyes.

Hannibal chides Will for his silence. “Come, Will. After all, I have yet to witness _your_ design.” Will stiffens, his hand pale knuckled on the knife. 

“Are you mocking me?” Will asks without spite; Hannibal appreciates Will’s ability to maintain perspective. Will presses a hand to the wall, lurches forward. 

“You have never been the object of mockery to me, Will. You have been, and will continue to be, most intriguing.”

“And have you learned everything yet?” There is a hint of venom in his voice now, it draws a feeling of cool appraisal from Hannibal. While he is utterly drawn to Will’s tenacious strength, he is displeased with Will’s attitude - he expected better, he supposes.

Will advances, circling. Hannibal does not join him in the slow turn of the room. He has no need for such pretence; allowing Will the idea he possesses power within this room provides no obstacle to his intentions. 

“One can never learn all there is to know about a living creature. There is only one thing which can answer all such questions.” Hannibal moves toward Will then; shadow fills the hollow of his face as the space between them melts away. Will ceases his circuit of Hannibal, there is no more secrecy to their intentions.

Will’s skin is tight, drawn across his bones like his skull threatens to emerge from beneath his flesh. Hannibal looms over him, despite Will’s straight legged stance. He understands. Hannibal draws Will to him, presses into the tender skin as if it could burst beneath his touch. He watches the simple quake of muscles beyond exhaustion, waits for the submission he knows is inevitable.

Will allows Hannibal to take the knife from him, does not struggle when Hannibal draws him to the floor, his back flat across the smooth length of dark wood.  

“Death,” Will says quietly, finally. He meets Hannibal’s eyes without prompting, a surprise. Hannibal is pleased at the lack of fear in Will’s eyes. “Am I going to answer your questions, then?” 

“That is your decision, I admit.” Hannibal allows the charade of comfort to fall into his façade, drawing a hand down the length of Will’s torso. He thinks for a long moment on the final words he wishes to say. Will Graham deserves only the greatest of gratitude, after all. He has taught Hannibal a great deal about perseverance, dedication, and desperation.

He leans close, lips parted. Will’s eyes reflect the white of his teeth as he says, softly: “This is _my_ design, Will.” 

Ah, he had not intended cruelty, but the words are infallible; he cannot take back that which is undeniable. 

Will is surprisingly silent under Hannibal’s knife, his body twitching only in automatic response. Their eyes lock and Will looks back at Hannibal, long after the blood fills his throat and mouth, spilling all around him in a crimson wave of butchery. He chokes out a few words, to which Hannibal nods, pleased and finally, finally known. “I...see...you..."

Hannibal sets the knife beside Will, drawing a red hand through sweat dark curls. He watches until Will’s body goes still. His flesh cools slowly, blood congealing on Hannibal’s clothes and the wood, which will undoubtedly stain. Good, Hannibal thinks, he will appreciate this final expression of discovery from Will. He has been seen, and he has been known.

To Hannibal, this is enough - It is everything.

Will’s eyes, still open, reflect Hannibal’s face perfectly. He closes them gently with one hand, examining the body with another.

It will take him some time to decide where to start.

**Author's Note:**

> Reality is nothing but distorted thoughts and painful, unwanted truths.
> 
> I have never believed Will Graham will outlast his time with Hannibal Lecter. Our beloved doctor is too meticulous to allow such intelligence and intuition to pass by without at least taking some form of conciliatory prize. 
> 
> I really hope you've enjoyed reading this, or that it at least given you insight to the kind of headspace into which Hannibal has driven me.
> 
> It's all quite... unstable.
> 
> \----
> 
>  
> 
> [Come see me on tumblr!](http://opheliajane.tumblr.com/)


End file.
